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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22899976">Like a Maggot in the Brain</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oyakata_Manya/pseuds/Oyakata_Manya'>Oyakata_Manya</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fruits Basket, Fruits Basket (Anime 2019), Fruits Basket - Takaya Natsuki (Manga)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, If you thought Ren couldn’t get any crazier guess what, Mental Instability, Psychohorror, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, and also actual, heavy au, ren-centric, unhealthy thought processes, you’re wrong</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:27:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22899976</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oyakata_Manya/pseuds/Oyakata_Manya</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This child came from inside of her. She could put it back.</p><p>If she digested this child, everything that has been put into it would be put into her.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sohma Akira/Sohma Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Like a Maggot in the Brain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Is this my darkest work yet? Perhaps. The idea behind this was initially actually for an original story, but was quickly scrapped for being, well—too gross. Weeks later, however, after sitting on the idea (and also after binging a lot of kikuo, which as it happens, will inspire one to write gross things), it occurred to me that this would likely work well as a Furuba fanfic idea.</p><p>We’ll see.</p><p>Heavy AU, obviously. And also, a last note: this fic really isn’t for the faint of heart—or stomach. You’ve been warned.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Let it be known; Sohma Ren is not a foolish woman. </p><p> </p><p>Oh, she knows how she is believed to be. She hears what they say about her when they think she’s out of earshot—the household hands, and the other family members, all cluttered in close circles and giving her dark-eyed glances, <em> whispering </em> about her behind their cupped hands—and they say that she is foolish, for believing that Akira could love her, and what’s more, they say she is unhinged, a cracked mirror waiting to bust wide open, manic and mad, mad, <em> mad</em>. </p><p> </p><p>But she is not these things. She is no cracked mirror, she is not mad, and certainly, <em> certainly</em>, she is not a fool. </p><p> </p><p>If anything, they are the foolish ones. </p><p> </p><p>They are the ones who have succumbed to madness; surely, the must be, if they can look upon that child—that <em> creature </em>—and call it—</p><p> </p><p>God. </p><p> </p><p>That child is no God. </p><p> </p><p>And yet Ren seems to be the only one who can see it. Everyone else looks upon it with awe and wonder; they beg to hold it in their arms, to clutch it close to their own chest. The women coo at the wretched little thing, calling it beautiful (it is <em> not,</em> it is a monstrosity, gnarled and pink; a ball of unwanted and discharged flesh) and the men grin at it, dancing their fingers before its eyes and calling it intelligent when its gaze follows them (and it is <em> not </em>, it is only a child, slow and stupid; it’s barely sentient, with only the mind to shit and scream and be a pest).</p><p> </p><p>But Akira—Akira is the worst of them. Because he holds that child close, and he does not call it beautiful, not intelligent, but rather, he looks at it, and his gaze is utterly steeped in <em> love</em>. </p><p> </p><p>She knows that gaze, knows it more intimately than she knows her own palms. It is imbedded deeply into the core of her, makes her who she is. Akira’s loving, light eyes, cemented into her memory, glowing and alight with happiness and hope and warmth. </p><p> </p><p>And now—now, he—</p><p> </p><p>That gaze belongs to her alone. No one else has ever seen it, she’s made sure. She knows this. When Akira faces the members of the household his countenance is cold, unyielding. But at night he turns to her, and he looks at her like <em> that </em> , with <em> love </em> , because she is the <em> most important thing</em>—</p><p> </p><p>And now—that child, now he looks upon <em> that child </em> with endless intimacy and love, and it is acid. It burns her; a parasite festering in her open wounds. She sees the shape of Akira’s lips (Akira’s lips, which, too, have only ever belonged to Ren alone) when he murmurs that the child is <em> special,</em> that it is <em> born to be loved</em>, because that child is a <em> God</em>. </p><p> </p><p>But Ren knows. She’s lurked in the corners of the house, a creeper confined to the dark, long shadows of inner-house secrecy, and she’s seen. Though it may have fooled the idiots of Sohma house, and though it may have bewitched her beloved Akira so thoroughly, Ren knows better. That child is no God. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yours is a special existence, Akito. You were born to be loved.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That child is not anything but a <em> thief</em>. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Are you feeling alright, love?” Akira says to her, and presses his palms sweetly, softly against the hollow of her cheeks. His breath is warm and damp where it’s puffed against her forehead, and his beautiful eyes are full of concern. </p><p> </p><p>Ren pants deeply. Heaves her chest a bit. They’re joined together, lying in the dark, in a way they haven’t been in months. Closer than the circumstances have allowed them to be in ages, and Ren relishes that fact. It’s good like this, better than anything, and she doesn’t have to let her brain wonder towards other things. </p><p> </p><p>There is only Akira, Akira, Akira. The only thing that matters. </p><p> </p><p>Still, the room they lay in is hot, unbelievably so, even as the humidity swims through the paper sliding doors and the mosquito mesh. Their bodies are soaked in sweat from the heat and their activities, and the stickiness makes Ren feverish and dizzy. </p><p> </p><p>(Dizzy with love. Dizzy with want.)</p><p> </p><p>“Y-Yes,” she breathes, breathless against the pale moist flesh of Akira’s nape. “I’m fine.”</p><p> </p><p>And she is—no—she’s better than fine. She’s enclosed in happiness, enveloped in love, brain buzzing with thoughts of Akira, Akira, <em> Akira</em>—</p><p> </p><p>A harsh cry breaks through her thoughts. </p><p> </p><p>Dry, unbearably wretched and sudden. The screeching of an infant. </p><p> </p><p>And suddenly Akira is moving. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Akito—” He says thoughtlessly as he peels himself from Ren, as though that name isn’t a curse, isn’t the sound of damnation with its sharp quickness. It’s an ugly name, the worst of any. Hearing it fall from the lips of her beloved tugs at something inside of Ren. </p><p> </p><p>Her skin burns as Akira pries himself off of her; they’d been sealed together impossibly close with the film of their sweat, and tearing the two of them apart stings like seven hells. Akira pulls off, pulls <em> out</em>, and Ren feels anguished, feels empty. </p><p> </p><p>And all the while that godforsaken child continues to scream. </p><p> </p><p>Akira hastily fastens the obi of his loose kimono closed and stands, turning to the source of the screaming. “Akito,” He calls again, and turns towards the nursery, where the cradle lies. </p><p> </p><p>Ren remains on the floor, skin now cold and clammy. She can’t see the nursery from where she lies on the tatami but she can hear them, can imagine well enough what must be happening between her beloved Akira and that creature. </p><p> </p><p>She sees it behind her eyelids, ethereal and monstrous; Akira crouching over the cradle to murmur quietly at the child laying there. How Akira would gently reach inside to stroke the infant’s flush-pink skin and dark hair, eyes swelling over with love. </p><p> </p><p>“Akito, Akito,” He says to it, the name a mantra bubbling from his soft lips. He would grab the child—<em>gently</em>, so gently, as though it may shatter at the faintest shaking (please, Ren’s mind stutters, suddenly manic, please <em> please </em> drop it, the body would hit the floor like a rock and, and—) and clutch it close to his chest, and rock it slowly, sweetly. </p><p> </p><p>The screams decrescendo. Ren’s mind buzzes. The silence is deafening. </p><p> </p><p>His hand must be at its back; softly stroking it. Like an animal—no, not an animal—but a <em> beast.</em> A beast that must be tamed, lest its roaring haunt the night. </p><p> </p><p>Something uncoils in Ren’s guts. She doesn’t move. </p><p> </p><p>She <em> hates </em> this. It is acid, it is a bullet in her chest; tearing her out from inside. She knows that Akira must be looking at the child with so much love in his eyes. She <em> knows </em> this, and the knowledge is a horrible, consuming thing. She swears she hears him, even now, whispering,</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You were born to be loved, Akito. I love you, Akito.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Akito</em>. That cursed child. The child that should have never been born. </p><p> </p><p>She realizes, here, now, that undoubtedly, she hates the child. <em> Hates </em> it, in a biting and terrible, overwhelming fashion. And she will always hate it, from this moment out; she must, because that child has only ever been loved—by <em> everyone </em> —by <em> Akira— </em></p><p> </p><p>(It’s like they never even think about the fact that it was <em> she </em> who brought the creature into this world—)</p><p> </p><p>If Akira has been bewitched by this child, so be it. For every ounce of love he breathes into it, she will give it hatred twiceover. </p><p> </p><p>Even if it burns her. She will hate, and hate, and <em> hate, </em> until—</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The breeze tickles gently against Ren’s naked toes. She hums, exhales smoke through her nose. The scent is musky and pleasant; the breeze, welcome. </p><p> </p><p>It’s warm out, but not too warm. Bright out, but not too bright. The clear sky gleams down upon the sloping roofs of the Sohma estate, and Ren watches the sunlight twinkle on the shingles. It’s a lovely day, all things considered. </p><p> </p><p>She’s seated on the engawa of one of the inner houses, robes slipping down her bare arms and a pipe pressed against her dark painted lips. She isn’t wont to smoke typically; the nurses tell her it’s poor for her health, and it’s no good to do it inside, but on warmer days such as this one she finds it an excellent way to clear her head. There’s so much to think about lately; so many stressors they nearly make her sick. It’s nice to be able to simply sit and smoke, away from it all. And she enjoys the smell, anyhow. </p><p> </p><p>She inhales deeply. Allows it to fill her lungs, down to each nook and crevice. Closes her eyes just a bit, and lets the moment linger. </p><p> </p><p>The crisp sound of someone clicking their tongue nearby snaps her out of her reverie. </p><p> </p><p>Ren opens her eyes again, slowly, and languidly exhales. The smoke billows from her lips and into the face of the boy standing in front of her, who coughs loudly as the stuff gets into his throat. </p><p> </p><p>Dark, shaggy hair and grey eyes, perhaps around eight or nine years old—she recognizes him as one of the spirit-children. There are five of them so far, she knows, but this one comes from a gaggle of three; she remembers him being one of the children who’d come to see her, <em> that morning</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“Ren-sama,” the boy gags, finished clearing his throat of her pipe smoke. She gives him a perplexed look; what business has this boy with her? She has hardly any interest in those afflicted with the zodiac curse. </p><p> </p><p>He rubs his nose with his sleeve, and then fixed her with a confident look, and it is harsh and unnatural on his youthful features. This boy is strange, she thinks. And then, he says to her, “May I see Akito-sama?”</p><p> </p><p>Ren’s thoughts come to an abrupt halt. </p><p> </p><p>Immediately, she feels the white hot, acid spike of anger at the mere mention of that child’s name—what could this boy possibly want with it? It is only an infant, <em> nothing </em> more—good for nothing except screaming and shitting, and—and stealing her beloved Akira’s eyes, his <em> love</em>—</p><p> </p><p>She inhales thickly. Her grip on her pipe tightens; her toes curl. She prays the boy does not notice. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, she schools her features. Exhales. Crushes her maroon lips into a scowl. She ignores the boy’s accursed question in favor of biting out, “What’s your name, boy?”</p><p> </p><p>She watches him straighten his back, likely out of habit, ingrained into him by the strict teachers at his all-boys school. “I’m Sohma Shigure,” he tells her, and after a beat, he adds, “I’m the Dog.”</p><p> </p><p>Ah, so that’s it then. The Dog is supposedly the most loyal, isn’t he? Her grip on her pipe tightened further, to the point that the wooden engravings must be pressing into the tender flesh of her palm. Dogs, Gods, zodiac spirits—it’s all a load of horse shit, anyways. Everyone else may be fooled, but Sohma Ren <em> is not a foolish woman.</em> </p><p> </p><p>“What business have you with that child?” She says darkly, and she watches his eyes grow—in surprise, or hurt feelings, maybe—“Have you come to seek your God here?”</p><p> </p><p>The boy hoods his eyes. His expression hardens. On a boy of eight or nine years, it’s an eerie thing to see. “No, Ren-sama.”</p><p> </p><p>She feels her head throb, the burning flush of biting bitterness. “What is it then, boy?!”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve come to see her out of love.”</p><p> </p><p>And then—her racing mind slows. </p><p> </p><p>If only for a moment. </p><p> </p><p><em> Love</em>.</p><p> </p><p>This boy is in love with that child. That <em> child,</em> which is worth <em> nothing </em> —that horrible, hideous <em> unwanted </em> ball of flesh—</p><p> </p><p>The pipe in her grasp snaps suddenly, cleanly into two. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Love?!” </em> She roars at the boy, a woman haunted, her eyes unseeing, ears packed full of mud. “What <em> is </em> it about that child which causes everyone to love it so—what worth has that child at all? It is only an <em> infant</em>, a <em> human</em>, just like you and me! It is not <em> God</em>, it is not <em> special! </em>It is going to die one day, like every other living thing on this wretched earth!</p><p> </p><p>“And yet <em> you</em>—you and <em> Akira</em>—you claim to hold <em> love </em> for it?! Just what about it is there to love? It has only ever amounted to one thing in its pathetic life, and that is to <em> steal</em>—” She chokes up, her throat constricting suddenly. The unspoken words are massive in her throat. <em> To steal Akira’s love</em>.</p><p> </p><p>She feels warm wetness at her eyes. Knows how she must look to the boy, and yet she is a woman possessed. She says lastly, unthinkingly, breathlessly, “Does no one even realize? That the child they adore so greatly only exists because of <em> me</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>The boy says nothing. There is only the sound of her breathing, weighty and enormous in the silence. She supposes, absentmindedly, that she should feel lucky that none of the household hands had to come to investigate her outburst. Somehow, it still feels like a loss. </p><p> </p><p>She glances up. The boy’s eyes meet hers, judgemental and cruel. The weight of the situation hits her like a train; he’s seen her, heard her manic thoughts. This boy knows her darkest heart’s desire. </p><p> </p><p>Something uncurls one her gut. (A hunger.) She feels those grey eyes bore into her. Her mind buzzes. <br/><br/></p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Her knees creek, lightly but noticeably, as Ren sits before her vanity in the evening. She hisses at the sound; according to the nurses, it’s her joints. Her health is going rather south rather quickly. </p><p> </p><p>But her appearance isn’t; she’s made sure of it. She gazed into her reflection; she’s beautiful, yes, she’s always been beautiful, but for Akira, she would make sure to present as no less than Helen of Troy herself. </p><p> </p><p>It is imperative to stir his desire for her; his <em> love.  </em></p><p> </p><p>She thinks back to their first time, oh so many months ago; in the cloying and thick summer heat, the glow of fireflies twinkling like lifelights outside of the window, and the hungry expression that blossomed on her beloved’s face when she disrobed. The way his breath turned husky, the way he asked her, just low enough to be audible over the screeching of insects in the dark, <em> “Can I get you to sing tonight, Miss Cicada?” </em></p><p> </p><p>And his hands had roamed her body next, exploring, gently stroking. His hooded eyes glazed over with desire, with <em> want</em>. </p><p> </p><p>With <em> love</em>. </p><p> </p><p>Ren grinds against the corner of her chair, legs quavering and belly warm at the memory. Her Akira, and the light gasp he’d made when he dipped two fingers into her dripping core—that was love, wasn’t it?</p><p> </p><p>She lets out a gasp. </p><p> </p><p>But that had been so long ago. </p><p> </p><p>Then the baby—that wretched child, <em> unwanted </em> child—had come into the world, and everything changed. </p><p> </p><p>They didn’t stop making love; not at first. Ren tightens her thighs as visions of Akira hovering over her in the moonlit dark as the child wailed in the next room swim through the head. That fucking child—it would scream like a siren, thirsty for her Akira’s attention, and he would give it to it, <em> every time.  </em></p><p> </p><p>And now—</p><p> </p><p>Things are different. </p><p> </p><p>Akira won’t touch her anymore. </p><p> </p><p>It was almost too surreal to notice, when he initially stopped. He no longer disrobed her during the night; then, he ceased to join her in the bedroom. </p><p> </p><p><em> “I’ve had a bed made in the nursery,” </em> he’d told her one evening, light eyes unreadable and expression firm, <em> “So that Akito won’t have to wake up alone anymore.” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> Akito— </em> that damned child—she’s raged at the time, letting putrid jealousy bubble up in her guts—would that child take even <em> this </em> from her?!</p><p> </p><p>But then—</p><p> </p><p>Akira would no longer reach for her hand. He would no longer run his fingers through her thick dark tresses. He wouldn’t brush shoulders with her; wouldn’t cup along her jaw. </p><p> </p><p>Now—now, he—he won’t even look at her. </p><p> </p><p>Her jaw clenches. The heat in her abdomen dissipates. In its wake is something rotted and massive, uncoiling and black and poisoning her blood. </p><p> </p><p><em> No</em>. She would not lose even this to that child. </p><p> </p><p>She would not become a ghost even to her own lover. </p><p> </p><p>Ren grinds her teeth. Digs her fingers into her hair, hard enough to pull. In another room, she can hear that child wailing. </p><p> </p><p><em> Akira in that nursery, clutching that child close instead of—instead of </em> me<em>— </em></p><p> </p><p>Her eyes are open. Unseeing. Her ears, clotted with mud. </p><p> </p><p>Somewhere, a box creaks open. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It’s dark. </p><p> </p><p>Darker than the trenches of the sea; darker than her ambitions, here in this room. </p><p> </p><p>The nursery. </p><p> </p><p>She makes it a point to not tread here; this room is cursed, she is certain. Though everyone may call her crazy, may seem her mad, she knows. She’s felt the miasma that rolls through the gaps in the sliding doors; tasted the poison of it lingering in the air; smelt the remnants of it clinging to Akira’s skin like a leech. </p><p> </p><p>This is no nursery; but a womb. The dark and hot, moist belly of a monster, churning and gurgling and pulsating. </p><p> </p><p>Those who step inside doomed to a fate of being slowly, meticulously digested. </p><p> </p><p>But—she has to be here. </p><p> </p><p>Because—she—</p><p> </p><p>There’s something inside of her, buried within the muscle. It’s small, and uncertain, but it’s there. An idea, not yet given form; a hunger she doesn’t yet understand, but then, that’s the whole point of coming here. Of entering the mouth of the beast. </p><p> </p><p>To understand. </p><p> </p><p>She eyes the child lying in the cradle. It’s on its belly, naked save for the plastic wrapping around its hips, and it’s breathing slowly, quietly. In, out. In, out. So shallow that you might not notice. But Ren does. She listens. In, out. In, out. She narrows her eyes. She can only hope for a slip-up, a stutter. A pause too long between each inhale and exhale. </p><p> </p><p>It would save her the trouble. </p><p> </p><p>But the child breathes. Simply breathes. In, out. In, out. It moves, slightly, with each breath; the minuscule rising of its blotchy pink back. The entire thing is just so <em> pink</em>—like an organ, doing it’s job dutifully even outside the body. It makes her sick; what a hideous creature. </p><p> </p><p>Ren dips a tepid hand into the cradle; not gentle, never gentle, but barely shaking with the force of vehement restraint. She reaches to touch the child, and it’s warm beneath the palm of her hand. The skin is smooth, and she runs a single finger along the lobes of fat at its shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>Then she strokes its hair, as Akira is wont to do. Its hair is dark, but thin and greasy; a far cry from the slipperslick softness of her own ebony locks. She’s heard the household hands call it beautiful—but what is beautiful about this creature? She resists the urge to grab a clump of its hair and pull; it deserves it, deserves the unbearable biting sting. </p><p> </p><p>But she has—something else in mind. </p><p> </p><p>She licks her plush lips. Slowly, languidly. </p><p> </p><p>Then creeps her hand over the shape of the child’s neck. Fits her fingers firmly around the flesh-colored, flabby skin there. </p><p> </p><p>It would be so easy—this helpless, defenseless thing. She is faster, stronger, than it could ever hope to be. If it screamed, she could cram her fist into its toothless mouth. She could—she could—</p><p> </p><p>She could imagine it now! The way it would crush its eyes shut as it tries and fails to gasp for breath; the way its limbs would flail initially, and then slow as it loses oxygen. The way its face would purple, dark and dark and darker; and the way that lovely carmine red would gush from the punctures as she drove her pointed tails into the tender flesh of its nape. The way the light, then life, would fade from its eyes as it gives up its struggle and the way it’s warmth would suddenly give out beneath the hot clutch of her palm. The blissful, sweet silence that would follow. </p><p> </p><p>And then—what she would do with the body—</p><p> </p><p>She gasps. Bites her tongue. Her fingers twitch against her restraint. </p><p> </p><p>This child came from inside of her. She could put it back there. </p><p> </p><p>It’s—It’s only her right, as a mother.</p><p> </p><p>This miserable ball of flesh was a part of her body, once. It <em> belongs </em> to her. This—this thing has taken <em> everything </em> from her, has stolen her place as Akira’s most dear, has stolen his gentle hands, his loving eyes—</p><p> </p><p>If she—Ren swallows thickly, applies an ounce more pressure to her grip at the infant’s throat—if she devoured this child, everything that Akira has fed into it—his touch, his gaze, his attention, his <em> love</em>—would all be hers again, wouldn’t it? Because everything that makes up this child, that was all once hers, wasn’t it?!</p><p> </p><p>If she digested this child, everything that has been put into it would be put into her. </p><p> </p><p>Everything. </p><p> </p><p>Even Akira’s—<em>love.</em> </p><p> </p><p>And she inhales once, forcibly, before her eyes grow wide, wild; this is her chance. She presses her fingers firmly against its throat, hard, <em> harder</em>, and—</p><p> </p><p>Something creeps in the shadows. A slithering, dark form, watching her. </p><p> </p><p>No, watching the child. </p><p> </p><p>Ren flinches from the cradle, gasps, gaze darting about the room. She’s been seen; someone has witnessed her here, in this state, someone has—</p><p> </p><p>It’s the Dog-spirit boy, she’s certain. The Dog-spirit boy, who knows her inner turmoil. He’s <em> here</em>, of course he is, watching the one he loves from the darkness. Ren curses under her breath. She knows this, she can feel it, those confident grey eyes flickering between the child’s hapless form and her own, and she flails—<em>no</em>—this boy is, he will ruin <em> everything</em>—</p><p> </p><p>The child hiccups from its place in the cradle and Ren spares it a single, disgusted glare before cluttering from the room (the <em> womb</em>—), a swirl of dark hair and dark robes, fretful and soaked in cold sweat. She’s been <em> seen</em>, she’s been <em> known</em>—</p><p> </p><p>She slams the sliding doors to the nursery shut behind her and leans against the wall outside. Pants thickly. Her ample chest heaves as her head buzzes, the screeching of cicadas in her mind. She allows herself a breathless moment to calm, to <em> breathe</em>. </p><p> </p><p>She—</p><p> </p><p>Eating the child? Had she truly been near to resort to cannibalism, out of desperation? Is she so far gone already?</p><p> </p><p>She places a trembling hand against her moist lips. No—she hadn’t, had she? There was no way. That would be <em> madness</em>. And Ren is not—<em>not—</em>mad. </p><p> </p><p>She will find another way to gain Akira’s affections again. She <em> has </em> to. </p><p> </p><p>(But what she doesn’t realize is that the idea has been planted within her now; furrowed deeply like a maggot in the brain, eating at her consciousness and devouring her from the inside out.)</p><p> </p><p>She slinks away from the nursery. Somewhere in the distance, an infant cries. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>“Why won’t you hold our child?” Akira says to her one day, when they are both seated on the engawa of an inner house and gazing at the rolling clouds coming in at sunset, their bottoms dark and baggy with rain. </p><p> </p><p>Akira isn’t facing the evening storm however; his gaze is turned inward, towards the house. Undoubtedly in the direction of the child lying inside. </p><p> </p><p>The air is tense with the pressure of the oncoming storm. Ren can feel it, the sharpness of it pricks at the bare skin of her arms. Beneath the clouds, the orange sky bleeds at the horizon, like a split-open wound. Her stomach stirs. </p><p> </p><p>“I,” she begins, ears ringing and mind static, “ I don’t see why I should have to. That child is already held by enough people to make up for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Then Akira’s gaze shifts away from the house, focuses on her. It’s a bittersweet feeling. She’s longed for months now that he would turn to her, that he would merely <em> look </em> at her; and he does now, and yet, his eyes are unreadable, his expression hard. His mind is elsewhere; in his mind’s eye, he likely sees the child, lying in its cradle. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you love her?” He persists, the wrinkles at his eyes crinkling with stress. Ren bites her lip, curled her fingers around the wooden rim of the engawa. “You’re her <em> mother</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not that child’s <em> anything!” </em>She bites out, gaze darkening. She looks at Akira, but she doesn’t see him. She sees the child, lying there. Sees her fist, curled around its neck. “I’ve brought that child into the world. Isn’t that enough?”</p><p> </p><p>“She was <em> born to be loved</em>, Ren,” And aren’t those just the words she hates the most; what right does that child have, it is—</p><p> </p><p>“‘Born to be loved,’” She echoes, “The hell does that even <em> mean?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“That child is the God spirit. That means—”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> know!” </em> She screams suddenly, standing and whirling on her lover, all sharp nails and sharper eyes. Her blood boils, her anger crackles along her back like lightning. “Everyone says that child is a <em> ‘special existence,’ </em> the <em> ‘God of the zodiac’</em>—but they’re all fools! All of you! That child is nothing—<em>nothing</em>—but an ordinary human being! It’s worth is not greater than mine! It doesn’t deserve—” Her voice cracks, she feels wetness at her eyes, “It doesn’t deserve you! It is only a <em> child! </em> The only reason it exists is because <em> I brought it into this world!” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> And, </em> she doesn’t say, <em> I can take it out of it.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Akira is silent for a moment. He allows his hair to fall into his eyes, hiding them from view. Blocking out his sight—blocking out <em> her.</em> Ren feels something blacker than anger, darker than jealousy, eat at her on the inside. <em> A maggot. </em> He won’t even <em> look </em> at her anymore. </p><p> </p><p>“Ren,” He says, stilted, and she freezes. He nearly never addresses her by name. It’s an acid feeling. “I won’t stand by and hear you say such things about our daughter.”</p><p> </p><p>“Our <em> daughter</em>,” She spits, vile in her mouth, “Is nothing more than a parasite, sucking the blood from you. You ought to see that for the truth.”</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in the distance, thunder claps. Ren feels the wind billow through her; give her breath. </p><p> </p><p>She’s <em> right</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Ren,” Akira repeats, firmer now, and he stands, “You haven’t been yourself lately. I think it would be best if you—”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No, </em> it is <em> you </em> who has not been yourself. Not <em> touching </em> me, not <em> seeing </em> me—all because you’ve let yourself be bewitched by—by that <em> thing!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Her eyes, for the first time in months, are open. Her ears, hearing. The illusion cracks; Akira is wrong. He is <em> poisoned</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re <em> unwell</em>, Ren!” Akira says, stalking towards her suddenly, making as though his is about to stroke her arms—<em>gently, just as he used to, so long ago</em>—but she jerks away abruptly. She won’t let herself be poisoned too. </p><p> </p><p>“No, the one who is unwell is <em> you</em>. You have been <em> blinded </em> by the child—but me? I am seeing it for the first time.”</p><p> </p><p>And then the rain comes down, hard, heavy and relentless. Ren peels her dark hair away from her face and looks at Akira, through him, a livid spirit spinning in dark emotions. </p><p> </p><p>“That child is not anything but a <em> thief</em>.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>She steals a knife from the kitchens. It’s hard, much harder than she anticipated it to be. They’re watching her now; everyone is, as though they’ve just been waiting for her to snap. That wretched lot, those <em> idiots</em>—they think she’s crazy. Really crazy. They say she’s mad. </p><p> </p><p>She is <em> not </em> mad. </p><p> </p><p>She’s in the right; she’s only doing what she must. What she has to do. What’s <em> in her right </em> to do. </p><p> </p><p>Akira had called her the child’s mother—isn’t this a mother’s right?</p><p> </p><p>Her mouth fills with phlegm; she tests the blade against her pinkie finger. The skin splits open; sharp and clean and dark, dark red. It stings, but it’s nothing compared to the broiling burning in her guts. There’s only the slightest hint of a serrated edge to the knife, and went she grinds it against the wound, the skin tears, jagged and messy. </p><p> </p><p>She imagines the blade against the plump skin of the child (<em>what would that taste like?</em>), the mind-numbing vision of it sawing against its bones (<em>c</em><em>hildren’s bones are brittle, aren’t they? They would snap so easily</em>), she imagines the high, the euphoria of its eyes glimmering with pain (<em>the eyes are windows to the soul—that’s the most important part)</em>.</p><p> </p><p>She’s <em> so close</em>. </p><p> </p><p>It’s trickier still to get into the nursery. She swears, even now, that the eyes of the Dog-spirit boy are lingering on the walls. She can’t be bothered to care, though; they are blind eyes, unseeing. </p><p> </p><p>Inside lays the child. Sleeping in its cradle; soundly, unknowing. Unaware of its fate, and the thought makes Ren positively giddy. For once, she can hold a power over it—the power of life and death, the power of <em> predator </em> and <em> prey</em>. </p><p> </p><p>She reaches a single hand into the cradle; the cut on her finger bleeds onto the infant’s pink skin, and it stirs. Only barely awake; barely aware of what is happening. </p><p> </p><p>It’s lying on its back this time. Gently, almost my sweetly, she toys with its lips. So small, so soft. Slick with spittle and puffing out light breaths of air. </p><p> </p><p>For a moment, only a moment, she feels as though she may be experiencing motherhood—she feels as though this creature, lying limply beneath her fingers, may be her daughter. </p><p> </p><p>The moment passes. </p><p> </p><p>Ren clamps her fingers against the child’s mouth. Her eyes grow wide, mouth splits into an animal expression. The child’s eyes open, she brings her other hand into the cradle. Traces the blade lightly against the soft skin of the child’s stomach. </p><p> </p><p>Then she presses down, and everything turns red. </p><p> </p><p>She’s dizzy, in a daze. Even muffled by her hand, she can feel the vibration of the infant’s wails. Sweat soaks her pits, skin tears beneath the knife. She presses against something hard; maybe it’s a bone. </p><p> </p><p>It’s like a fever dream. She’s thought of doing this for so long. Something sticky pops against her fingers. There’s a soupy mess of red and pink beneath her hands; the child’s breath grows shallow against her palm. </p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in the distance, the snap of a wooden box splitting open. </p><p> </p><p>Somewhere, a maggot—</p><p>
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</p><p>The day the child was born, Ren was sick with fever. </p><p> </p><p>Only half-award of the ordeal, she remembers vibrantly the agonizing pain of her body splitting open like a box. She remembers visions of pink, and red, and liquid flesh. </p><p> </p><p>But Akira had been there with her, <em> watching </em> her, and so everything had been okay. </p><p> </p><p>His hand in hers, his loving gaze meeting hers, even as she would rightly close her eyes and grimace with each wave of pain. The gentleness of his warmth at her side, during the worst of it. </p><p> </p><p>And then the baby came. </p><p> </p><p>She wouldn’t realize it then, but rather later, that when the nurse had taken the child and placed it in Ren’s arms, and Akira had given her the warmest, the softest look she had ever seen, that look was not directed at her. </p><p> </p><p>But the child. </p><p> </p><p>The thing had then clamped down on her breast, ravenous and relentless. It stung; the burning clamp of its lips against her skin as it drank from her. Akira had watched, and watched, and watched. </p><p> </p><p>She wouldn’t realize it then, but later, that that may have been the exact moment that the child had taken Akira’s love from her. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Wasn’t it her right as a mother, to claim it back.  </em>
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</p><p>The first piece of flesh goes down easily. </p><p> </p><p>It’s mostly skin, and still warm, and it slides down her throat like seaweed; sticky and slipperslick, yet salty. </p><p> </p><p>She barely even has to <em> chew</em>. </p><p> </p><p>She takes another piece—dangles it over her maw like a delicacy. For raw meat, it is shockingly tender. She licks the traces of dark blood it leaves on her lips. </p><p> </p><p>By the third piece, she realizes it is <em> delicious</em>. </p><p> </p><p>Ren eats the outer skin like she has eaten nothing else before in her life—sloppily and demanding, hungry for each bite. She has cut it up into strips for easy consumption, and by the time she finishes the final strip, she wishes for more. </p><p> </p><p>She bites into an intestine next. </p><p> </p><p>Cold, and wet. Soaked in blood and coated in fraying tissue. As it slides down her trachea, she likens it to the slow crawl of a maggot, creeping within her. </p><p> </p><p>The eyes are nearly soup; they retained very little solidity after their separation from the child’s skull. These are saltier than the rest; nearly too salty, but important. </p><p> </p><p>She, of course, saves the child’s heart for last. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a small, wet thing in her grasp. She turns it over in her fingers. The blood it leaves in her hand gleams and shimmers. </p><p> </p><p>This is what has soaked in Akira’s love; this is the retainer of his loving glances, his gentle touches.</p><p> </p><p>This is—</p><p> </p><p>She places it daintily against her tongue; it explodes in her mouth; thousands of ants crawling along the lining of her gums. </p><p> </p><p>She swallows thickly. </p><p> </p><p>If this is the flavor of love, love tastes lukewarm, and wet, and oversalted. </p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>.</p>
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